Stutter
by youlaysolow
Summary: Mark/Addison relationship progression, New York, starts off pre-adultery. Because I really miss Maddison. Please read and review! :
1. It's Just Me

_I lost a piece of me in you; I think I left it in your arms. I forget the reasons I got scared, but remember that I cared quite a lot._

He finds her in the gallery (and mentally kicks himself for not thinking to look there sooner), gingerly perched on the edge of the metal bench with her hand hovering near her mouth.

He knows she's trying to resist chewing on her perfectly manicured fingers—that like all of her flawless external attributes, those nails are a product of a strapping self-discipline that requires continuous effort. Mark knows this because he's been privy to the punitive turmoil that arises when she fails to live up to the expectations she sets for herself.

After casting an inspecting glance at the three interns huddled on the other side of the room and determining they are engrossed enough in conversation that they won't be tuning in on every word he is saying (God he hates interns), he makes his way over to stand in front of the redhead and looks down into the O.R. He cocks an eyebrow at the anxious woman beside him when the fuss and commotion he expects to find below (judging from her demeanor) is absent. Instead, Derek is leisurely suturing up a stable patient and chatting lightheartedly with the assisting nurses.

"Important patient?" he asks when she doesn't acknowledge his presence.

"Hmm?" her focus remains on her husband, studying his every move as if she's still the petrified first year that she was (which, he muses, she still is, in a way).

He gestures to the man on the operating table by way of an explanation and makes his was over to sit beside her.

"Oh, I don't know him," Addison shrugs, curling her fist beneath her chin, "just watching the surgery."

"A…craniotomy," he verifies, watching her from the corners of his eyes. He knew she was a dedicated observer of Derek's surgeries but he's never seen her skip out on her own responsibilities around the hospital to sit in of his routine procedures, especially with such diligence.

"What are you getting at?" she finally snaps her head around to stare at him, making him recoil at her hostility.

"Hey I'm just saying it's a simple-"

"Simple? No brain surgery is 'simple,' _Mark_," she spits, eyes widening in fury, and he thinks if she was a cartoon character her eyebrows would be drawn up above her hair and not on her forehead, the way nature intended. "You think that man's family is out there laughing over how 'simple' this is? Why are you even here, don't you have some more complicated procedure like a breast augmentation to attend to?" Yeah, eyebrows on her hair and steam blowing out of her nose too, he decides.

He ignores her jab at his specialty, opting to point out the inconsistencies in her arguments instead because if there's anything that gets her more fired up than people insulting her field of expertise, it's people seeing through her façade.

"Oh so you know his family, then?" he feigns puzzlement, "because a second ago you affirmed, and I quote, 'I don't know him, just watching the surgery.'"

A grin stretches across his face when she sets he jaw and turns her attention back to the operation taking place below. He's about to press further when he spies the trio in mint green scrubs sneaking glances in their direction. And as much as he likes pushing her buttons, he decides she's dejected enough without feeling a sense of lost credibility in front of her inferiors. So he sidles closer and lowers his voice.

"I just needed a consult, if they can spare you," he nods towards the team wrapping up the surgery. She rolls her eyes but rises anyway, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. He eyes what he can make out of her figure through the gap of her lab coat, appreciatively. "Someone's been spending an extra hour putting together her outfits, lately," he teases, preparing to get the customary slap on the arm but receiving no response to his flirtatious remark. She stands paused in front of the glass for a minute, and he knows he is not the one whose attention she's trying to grab. He knows, then, that she sits in on even the most routine of neurosurgeries to equip herself with enough topics of conversation to hold Derek's interest for longer than a couple of minutes.


	2. Been Down

_Why can't this work, when we both try?_

She doesn't open the door so he lets himself in with the spare key they sensibly handed to him the day they bought the brownstone on Madison Ave. in New York's Upper East Side. Until recently, he had only ever used it to water the plethora of plants they (Addison, mainly) owned when the couple left town, which she claimed was futile since they were always half dead upon her and Derek's return, anyway. His retaliation was always some variation of "I'm not your house keeper," and "I had a girl with me and got distracted," which earned him a disgusted grunt and a whack on the shoulder with whatever object happened to be in her hand at the time, usually papers of some sort.

"Addison?" he calls out into the home, scanning the rooms adjoined to the foyer, "hello?" He rounds the stairs towards the kitchen, which is where he often finds her on nights like this – drinking wine ('Sipping' if he's being kind, 'chugging' if he's being honest) or disposing of another dinner left untouched. But before he can get far there is a shuffling of papers and a padding of feet and she emerges from Derek's office, eyes wide and lips sandwiched between her teeth, a panic-stricken look on her face. She relaxes a little, shoulders dropping, when he sees him.

"I thought you were Derek," she explains, pressing her back into the wall and sheepishly eyeing him.

Mark tilts his head in suspicion. "What's up," he asks, but his voice does not match the casualty of the inquiry. She shakes her head and grins one of her fake, tight grins that he has come to know so well. "Addison…" he pushes.

With a sigh of surrender she flops her arms up and down weakly, and bites her lip. "I think Derek's cheating on me," she says simply.

"What?" Mark raises two unbelieving eyebrows, "what are you talking about, Addis-" he catches a glimpse of the room she emerged from, with papers spewed about the floor and his jaw drops. He rushes in to observe the mess she has made in her search for answers and stares back at her in disbelief. "Seriously?" he gestures to the computer screen displaying his best friend's email inbox.

He can't blame her for the suspicion, he supposes. Derek has been almost unreachable for the better half of the past year. He's not angry about any violation of privacy (as long as it's not his), and couldn't care less about the current state of the room. What bothers him is that she truly believes that Derek is having an affair – judging from her glassy eyes and the flushed skin around her nose, he can tell she's been crying.

"Addison," he begins, kneeling to gather some files from the floor, "he is _not _cheating on you, don't be silly." Her face crumples and she cringes at his terminology. She is so sick of being called silly, or dramatic, or sensitive, or any variation of the terms.

"You sound just like him," she mutters from her place in mahogany doorframe.

"Hey, I'm just trying to help!" he snaps, throwing the papers on the desk, "I'm not a babysitter!" He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but she's already shaking her head in disbelief, bottom lip beginning to quiver.

"Did he ask you to come?" she questions through her teeth, and he doesn't know whether to say yes because although it would lower his sincerity in her mind, it would at least make her think Derek cared enough to notice she was upset when she left the hospital. He doesn't have time to decide though because she lets out a hollow laugh and disappears down the hall, with a surly "you can show yourself out, Mark."

It should count for something that he's there at all, Mark fumes as he collects the remaining papers on the floor. He's not good at being comforting, nurturing, sympathetic. He's never been one to coddle the weak and even if he was, Addison is anything but weak to him. He hates seeing her upset because he cares about her (more than he's willing to admit on occasion), but there is no instinct to humor her or indulge her in empty sentiments and tell her everything is okay when things clearly aren't. He's not going to lower the importance of her feelings for the sake of feeling useful.

He finds her in the kitchen, staring absently into her glass of wine.

"I thought I told you to leave," she doesn't turn to face him.

"Derek didn't send me, Addie," he attempts in a gentler tone, "I came because I saw how upset you were when you lost your patient. Just wanted to make sure you're alright."

"I'm fine," she replies, her voice flat.

He shifts on his feet uncomfortably. Normally this is when he would crack a joke or make a sexual innuendo to ease the tension but fortunately his verbal filter has developed since he's begun to spend more time with Addison, and it tells him this is not the time. So he asks if she wants to talk, and she shoots him a simultaneously quizzical and revolted glare.

"You hate talking," she points out.

"No," you argue weakly, "I want to. Let's talk."

"No thank you."

"Please?"

"Mark-"

"Come on-"

"What is it that you want to talk about?" she laughs bitterly, "that my husband hasn't touched me in six months? Or that he can't be bothered to let me know he won't be sleeping at home for the fifth night in a row? Or that he's having an affair-"

"He is_ not_ having an affair, Addison!" he interrupts, slumping against the counter for a second before snapping upright again when he realizes the other, more imperative point she's addressed. "Did you say _six months_?" he questions in disbelief.

"Six months and eight days, if we're being precise," she mumbles into her glass and raises her eyes to meet him. She almost looks ashamed, he recognizes. He pours himself some wine.

"That's, a long time," he chokes, but quickly alters his tone when he sees her miserable nod, "but everyone goes through dry spells, you're both so busy." It sounds so scripted and cliché, but it's the best he's got. He's Mark Sloan, and he's pretty sure he hasn't gone more than a week without sex since he began having it sometime in the tenth grade. The idea of taking six months off isn't something he can empathize with.

But, he would be lying if he said he wasn't, on some level, pleased with the fact that she hasn't been screwing his best friend lately.

"Fuck you, Mark," Addison sneers, and it's clear that she's drunk because she doesn't curse unless she is. Drunk or very angry, and right now it's both.

"That's always an option," he winks.

"You're incorrigible," she wrinkles her nose, "and that's adultery in case you didn't realize."

She reaches for the bottle of cabernet and pouts when no liquid swishes around inside and he has to smile at the sight.

"I think it would be more like an act of service," he muses, pouring some of his wine into her empty glass.

She laughs, and it's seemingly more genuine this time, "What makes you think, if I decided to venture out onto the path of adultery, that it would be with you?"

She points a thin finger at him playfully and he seizes it in his grasp, "because," he explains simply and flutters his eyelashes, "then you can claim to have just fallen victim to my irresistible charm."

"You're full of yourself," she observes and he resists making a highly inappropriate comment involving her being full of himself instead. "Besides, I think I made it clear that your charms have no effect on me, years ago." She alludes to their internship at Mt. Sinai and his many failed attempts at courting her.

"Yes, you sure did," he agrees, finishing the red liquor in his glass.

He won't lie about his intentions in those early years – he was not in love with her, and perhaps the driving force in his continuous attempts to get her into bed _was_ the fact that she didn't fall for any of his stunts, never hesitated to call him out on his bullshit, and pointedly expressed her dislike of his character. Maybe he wanted her because he couldn't have her, and maybe he _was_ always inherently in competition with his best friend. So maybe she was right to pick Derek, who knows. But as he looks around the desolate house and the redhead poignantly tracing the rim of her glass with her pinky, he wishes she had given it just a little more thought.


	3. Wish You Were Here

_And if I could have my way we'd take some drugs and we'd smile but not tonight, my dear, wish you were here._

He agrees to meet Derek at the nearby bar they've been frequenting since the first year of their internship. It is a modest little tavern just up the block from Mt. Sinai and was actually a discovery of Addison's. Back then she would only order sickeningly sweet, fruity drinks (because alcohol made her feel nauseated), as opposed to the bottles of brandy she is now able to down in a heartbeat. She loved it, she claimed, because there were Christmas lights up year-round.

His best friend is already nursing a scotch when he arrives some time close to midnight.

Mark groans as he sinks onto the neighboring barstool, feeling the exhaustion of the busy day at the hospital.

"I hate Fourth of July," he laments as Derek orders him a scotch as well and chuckles in agreement. "The Declaration wasn't even signed until a moth later."

"I think that's still up for debate," Derek smiles.

"Regardless, I don't understand why anyone would feel the need to run around blowing everything, including themselves, up with fireworks."

They take a concerted swing from their glasses.

"Well the worst of it is over," Derek sighs, running a hand through his hair. The past week, the week after Independence Day, has had the hospital in turmoil. Fortunately, things have finally begun to calm down.

They spend an hour catching up, though there are moments of comfortable silence as they work their way through a chain of drinks until Derek is slurring the names of his recent neurosurgical procedures. As usual, this is when Mark knows it's time to leave. He catches a cab and helps him into the brownstone, all routine. What isn't routine are the rose petals covering the stairs and when they wilt beneath his shoes as he drags Derek up the steps, he begins to feel a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He decides it would be wise to caution the wife of the potato bag sagging off his shoulder and the likely creator of this romantic ambiance to avoid walking in on something not meant for his eyes to see.

"Addison?" he calls up the stairs, but the house remains silent.

"Come on buddy," he attempts to pull Derek upright when he finally reaches the top, and leans him against the banister. "You have to snap out of it," he advises, and snaps his fingers in front of the dark haired man's face for emphasis. "Why do I always end up being the babysitter," he mutters to himself when Derek remains limp and unresponsive.

Great.

His eyes catch sight of more rose petals, a trail of them leading into the master bedroom. Clearly Addison had planned to end her now seven months of celibacy tonight. Looking over at his friend he decides it is safe to assume that is not going to happen. So he lets Derek slide down to the floor and tentatively follows the path of roses laid out before him. The door is slightly ajar and there is candlelight dancing on the green walls of the couple's room. His knuckles rap the door as he pushes it open further and he knows he shouldn't but he's staring at her shape before he can tell himself to look away. She lies on her side dressed in lingerie he's only seen in the Playboy magazines he stole from his father in junior high, and the memory reminds him to feel guilty, watching her like this. But her legs stretch down the bed and her hair is straight, spilling over her shoulder and her back and he wonders if it's always been that long. Derek grunts behind him and Mark snaps out of his reverie, glancing at the man for whom he suddenly feels ashamed.

"Addison," he tries again, closing the door a little and looking away. When she stirs he clears his throat.

"Mark?" he hears her groggy reply, and then a scuffing of feet against the rugs and she appears in the doorway, pulling a silk negligee around her frame. Her eyebrows crease and he looks at her, shamefaced, and wait. Within seconds she spies her husband on the floor and the surprise that fails to rise in her face surfaces in his.

Addison's lips form a round 'oh' and she hugs herself, defensively, not taking her eyes off Derek – slumped against the wall and sitting in a pile of crushed rose petals.

It's a fucking pathetic sight, really. He wishes tonight Derek would have remained sober enough to walk _himself_ up those stairs. He figures he should say something, but nothing seems fitting.

"We, uh," he tries, massaging circles into his temples with his thumb and middle finger, "just went out for some drinks."

"Yeah," she breathes and wets her lips, "I can see that."

Mark squeezes his eyes shut for a second, because just because he isn't stumbling, doesn't mean the world isn't spinning for him as well.

"I'm sorry, Addison."

"It's fine," is her quick response, and he's pretty sure he sees her square her shoulders and raise her chin before thanking him for helping Derek get home. "But I can take it from here," and there's that grin again.

He climbs down the stairs, trying his best to avoid squashing more red flower petals along the way. There is a strange sensation of feeling at fault in his gut. Him and Derek have a history of hitting the bars every once in a while, and he's brought Derek home drunk on numerous occasions. But tonight is different because Addison's usual chastising and annoyance was replaced by a mere acceptance, and he didn't know what to do when she got that empty look in her eyes, a look she's been getting a lot lately.

He is almost out of the house when he notices the small gift bag sitting on the console beside a humble, white card with a simple "Derek" written on the front in her delicate handwriting. He hesitates momentarily before picking it up.

_Derek,_

_Through thick and thin, I am yours, forever._

_Happy 10__th__ Anniversary!_

_Love,_

_Addison_

In any other scenario, Mark Sloan would use this as yet another reason to breathe a sigh of relief that he wasn't stupid enough to sign his life away to the conflicts that are the inescapable escorts of married life. Tonight, he listens to Addison's attempts to gently coax Derek off the floor and into the bedroom, and wishes he had been wrong in all his ideas of marriage.

The gravity of the situation has never been apparent before. He's spent enough time with Addison to catch on to the complaints (subtle when sober, and a little more obvious when drunk) and notice the longing glances she shoots in Derek's direction when they happen run into each other at the hospital. But he hasn't given it much thought – relationships aren't his thing and analyzing their complexity is not the best use of his time. But even Mark Sloan knows that when you're married to a beautiful (not to mention all the words he can use to describe the way she looked tonight) woman waiting at home and spend one of the few nights you have off call getting wasted at dingy bar—anniversary aside, even—something is very wrong.

For a minute he considers going back up there, trying to comfort her, but he doesn't know what he would say – Mark is not good with emotions and he knows she hates showing her vulnerability as well. So he leaves them, locks he doo behind himself, and walks the three city blocks home.


	4. Confusion

Author's Note: Thank you so much for your reviews! It is so nice to hear what people think. :) This chapter was very difficult for me to write, I had to force myself through it and it probably shows but I am glad it's finished and I am already halfway through the next one so I will try to get that one up quickly. Thank you for reading!

_Little things trigger big problems, you can wipe out a stain and maybe I destroy what makes you sad. If you're rid of so many minds, buried that you never relay until your body's numb and it's all too bad._

It is the third Friday night in a row that Mark buzzes Addison into his building. When the heavy doors of the elevator crawl open on the 16th story, he is there to greet and usher her down the hallway to his apartment.

Throughout the last few months, he has remained acutely aware of the increasing amount of time they have been spending together. The weekly laments about the foul state of her marriage turned into bi-weekly laments about the foul state of her marriage, turned into a realization that time spent in his company cheers her up, turned into Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday lunch dates, turned into an invitation for drinks, then a movie, turned into "Mark, the house is so empty," turned into "Addison, then come here."

It was casual, friendly. Their conversation had deviated from the topics of husband and her lack of sex life with said husband weeks ago, and now she lowers her eyes and indulges in a deep warning breath when he inquires how things are going with Derek. So he doesn't, for the most part. Derek thrown out of the equation, (the equation of conversation, that is), she finds herself cracking jokes, and he finds himself stopping by her office for the enjoyment of her company, and not from feelings of obligation (genuine feelings, but obligatory nonetheless) to make sure she's okay.

"Thought we agreed on 9," he teases as he kicks the door shut and reaches from behind her to help her slip out of her coat. The maneuver is interrupted when she abruptly spins around to face him, eyes wide as saucers.

"You don't…" blushing, she hesitates. Her bottle green eyes drift past him, towards the direction of his bedroom before she tries again, voice dropping to a whisper, "you don't have someone _here_ do you?"

He has to laugh at her terrified expression. Because forget being caught rummaging through her husband's office like a paranoid maniac, or crying over the wine she spilled on her favorite shirt while pouring a sixth glass—showing up an hour early and interrupting the scrumptious sex he could be having with a random woman, now _that's_ something to warrant the face of embarrassment she was sporting.

His chuckle doesn't provide a satisfactory answer, because she continues to stare at him, imploringly.

"No, Addison," he has to clarify with a playful nudge of her elbow, and then adds (in the spirit of playfulness), "Amy ran off mere minutes ago! Or was it Ashley…?" Mark scratches at the stubble on his chin, feigning uncertainty.

Ritualistically, Addison rolls her eyes, calls him an ass, and strides past him into the kitchen, reverted to her previous poised high-heeled glory.

An hour later they sit on his couch and the distance between them is inversely correlated with the amount each is willing to delve into his/her "personal" archives. Each night they start out on the opposite ends of the couch, and as the wine is emptied form the glasses, each grows more comfortable, relaxing into the leather cushions and into one another. Dry conversation ripens. Tonight they have argued over baseball, (well, semi argued, because Mark instantly discredited all her opinions, saying she knows nothing about the sport), entertained the idea of a new lunch location (brown-paper-bagging on top of the Empire State Building), and visited topics such as hospital gossip, (mainly focusing on him and his liaisons with the nursing staff).

"I hate that you take so much pride in your conquests," she spits and crosses her arms, offended.

He raises a finger, eyes sparkling with mischief because he loves disproving her arguments, "Ah, but pride is implicit when it comes to a conquest, is it not?"

"Then it is the wrong word." She huffs.

"Wrong?" his palms fly up to cup his cheeks, mocking shock. "Addison Montgomery made a _mistake_?"

"Not as many as you probably have," she retorts, cocking one of those perfectly manicured eyebrows and he'd be lying if he said the implication behind her comment didn't make his breath hitch in his throat for a second.

"A professional quarterback doesn't charge onto the field without a helmet," he corrects with a wink, reciting a silent prayer that there aren't any little Mark Sloans running around New York (or the world, as it may be).

"Even the most trusted forms of birth control leave room for failure—condoms tear, people forget to take their pills—" his hand flies up in the universal signal for 'STOP,' and he exhales a cloud of building anxiety.

"Woah, okay, stop. Right there. I don't need the sex lecture, okay doc?" He watches as a pleased grin stretches across her face, "Save it for your gynie patients. What I do? Not your problem."

"I have a problem with something, thereby it _is_ my problem."

Puzzled as to when she had become so stupidly rational, Mark takes a slow sip of his win, not taking his eyes off hers. "And what is this problem of yours, Miss Addison?"

"I have a problem with your treatment of women!" Addison states as-a-matter-of-factly. She's staring him down with the intimidation only she can muster but he spies her heels lying abandoned near the edge of his coffee table, indicative of her having abandoned at least some of the tense and uncomfortable front she wore a few hours prior. So he deems it safe to lean in a little closer without imposing onto her personal space.

"Trust me, Red," he utters in a hushed voice as if letting her in on a secret, "my treatment of women is exceptionally respectable."

She narrows her eyes at him, "somehow I doubt it." It is not an unusual jab, this implication that he is anything less than a gentleman in or out of bed. Addison has been harassing his "serial monogamy" as she often put it for over a decade. It was almost a ritual between them and Mark never missed the opportunity to further frustrate her, earning more insults and huffs. But tonight it is not the case as Mark feels a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. From her tone (though same as always) he draws out a hint of seriousness and it actually _bothers_ him. Suddenly he is very aware of his discomfort with the idea of Addison knowing all about him and his "sexual conquests." He catches himself before he can start explaining in a pathetic attempt to defend himself in her eyes. Instead, he utilizes the first retort that pops into his mind.

"You're just jealous because I'm getting laid and you're—" he stops before he can finish the sentence, but the effect is irrevocable—her bottom lip is ensnared between her teeth and the stem of her wine glass twirls in her fingers. _Inappropriate_, _insensitive_, _inconsiderate_ his conscience chants. He mimics her gestures.

"That was-," he attempts, but who is he kidding? He sucks at apologies. He settles on a weak "my bad," peeking up at her shamefully.

Mark has learned a lot in the time he has spent with her. On many levels, Addison is more tolerant of his tasteless mannish jabs and quips than women he's met in the past. (This is the key to their growing friendship). She feigns offence only to fire pack with her own compilation of witty remarks. She is confident, opinionated, and poised. In all the years Mark has known her, as Addison Montgomery and as Addison Montgomery-Shepherd, he had received small, fleeting insights into her character and considered himself one of the few people who really knew the redhead. Her stoic facade amongst her co-workers, strangers, and sometimes friends (and sometimes husbands, or, just the one) had deceived him quite a few times as well, before he learned of the emotions hiding behind it. But it wasn't until he found her crying into her scrubs two years back and stood frozen as she pleaded with him to leave her alone that each small faltering of her perfect persona became noticeable. Since then, and since she moved up four spots on his speed dial, Mark has not only begun to see through all the acts of optimism and professionalism she put on among others, he has become more sensitive to her momentary breaks in character. (Regardless, the Oscar still goes to her. Addison Montgomery! Best Actress for her performance in _My Life is Perfect_!) And when she casts her eyes down at her lap after his jab at her marriage, Mark shrinks into the cushions of his couch, remembering a time when like everybody else, he wouldn't detect the minor withdrawing of her knees away from him and the feeble delicate pinch of her lips. _Please don't cry_ Mark prays, crossing his fingers at his side because anything that might help keeping that salty water from pouring down her cheeks is worth trying. He can handle angry drunken slurs, even girly bitching but crying, particularly the redhead sitting to his left crying, that is something he is not well equipped to handle.

To his surprise, Addison peeks up at him out of the corner of her eyes and smirks. "Actually…" she hints and (like many of his (seemingly reflexive) reactions lately) he can't understand why his fingers curl into fists.

"You are," he acknowledges, tone split between surprise and monotony.

Even after he helps her into a cab and stumbles back into his empty apartment he is still replaying the many possible scenarios in his mind. Did Addison finally succeed at one of her attempts at seduction? Maybe there were no rose petals this time, but just her, stretched out on their staircase? Or did Derek burst through the door after rediscovering his own hormones? When was Derek home last? Perhaps she's been spending extra nights on call, to be with him. Maybe it was force, rather than charm. On whose end?

Nursing a glass of scotch as he slouched on his own barstool, Mark fought to throw the images out of his mind. He was a man who had abandoned plenty of morals over the years, did things that have surely earned him a ticket on the train to Hell, yet something about indulging in these particular thoughts surpassed all other sins.

He had been joking when he told Addison he had a girl over mere minutes before she arrived. Now, half an hour after her departure Mark is dialing the number neatly scribbled on a post-it note he dug out from his pocket. He knows Addison wouldn't approve, would mutter something about how immoral he is, using women for just sex. But maybe she would disapprove of it less than she would of the images dancing around his mind. Who made her the ethics patrol anyway? He declares his reasoning satisfactory as he plucks his keys from the counter and sprints back downstairs to catch a cab with plans to meet Carly at a nearby bar.

Or maybe it's Charlie.

Carla?


	5. Futile Devices

Author's Note: Okay, so I know I haven't updated in FOREVER but I just could not write for the longest time. I tried but hated everything I managed to get onto the word document. I am finally managing to get my thoughts out now and I'm trying not to beat myself up about it not being too great because I know I just need to write and it will naturally improve as I go along. Anyway I will stop ranting now. Here's another little one-shot. Nothing too fancy but I thought it was a cute idea. Inspired by my roommate's experience at a party. Hope you enjoy! Please review, even if it's criticism. I don't have a beta and I wrote this at 3 am last night in between studying for finals so there are probably typos. I apologize for that.

* * *

"_It's been a long, long time since I've memorized your face. It's been four hours now since I've wandered through your place."_

It's another evening spent in the company of his favorite redhead, this time in the brownstone she shares with her husband. Said husband is opting to spend the night in the on-call room, something that surprises neither one of them when she reads the email he sent her aloud. She's not nearly as upset about his absence these days, or she has become expert in hiding it. So here they are. The movie they were watching has long since ended and Addison has nearly drained all the merlot from the wine bottle and Mark was working on his third beer.

"Do you remember that impromptu costume party Derek's blockhead roommate _Peter_ hosted?" Addison asks, out of left field.

He glances down at her, sprawled on the beige rug that stretches across her living room, the chaos of her long crimson hair fanned out around her head, like an orb.

"I sure do," he smirks at the amusing memory and takes a swig from his beer bottle. It was that night that his best friend introduced Addison to him, and while they were mere acquaintances in the years following, Mark didn't miss an opportunity to use the experience to tease her mercilessly.

"It was my first college party," Addison admits bashfully, rolling her eyes back to look at him.

Mark scoots closer to the edge of the couch and his eyebrows shoot up subtly.

"Addison," he snickers, "that was the end of _med_ school." Was he getting his timeline screwed up? Her blank stare answered his question and he shakes his head, incredulous. "You didn't go to a single party when you were actually in college?"

"I was busy," her arms fold across her chest in her typical defensive manner. His snort echoes off the walls of the room and she pushes up on her elbows, spinning around to face him. "I was!" she maintains, "I was very focused on my schoolwork, and my internships, and-, and-, I had that research assistant position with my pathogenesis professor-"

"Right, of course," Mark chuckles, head hung, "the research position."

"Are you making fun of me for being a dedicated student?" she pouts from her spot on the floor.

He watches her reach over for her wine glass, and smiles fondly.

"No, I am making fun of you for being a nerd."

"Just because I had no interest in chasing cheap shots of tequila with Sunny-D and wasting hours participating in drunken arguments about the rules of Beirut _doesn't_ make me a nerd."

"Uh-uh," Mark shakes his head as he swallows the last of his beer and places his empty bottle onto the end table, making sure to utilize the coaster Addison had intentionally laid out for him earlier. "That does not make you a nerd," he acknowledged, but before she could revel in the effortless victory quickly added, "but that ridiculous costume you wore, does."

"Wha-" Addison's mouth falls open in a feeble attempt to defend her dignity. She stumbles over a few words before settling on slapping his shin playfully, "shut up! It's not my fault everyone else failed to dress up."

This elicits another heartfelt chortle. "I am pretty sure the only person that did any type failing that night was," his pointer finger winds in circle as it inches towards her, and his body follows, "you."

Now it's her turn to smirk and she tips her head to the side, her hair spilling onto her shoulder and shrugs, innocently. "Pretty sure your success rate declined a bit that night too."

His response is a firm grin and he stands up to refill her wine glass and get another beer from her fridge, but not before she sees his steel blue eyes darken.

_He arrived fashionably late to find Derek's living room packed with what he could have guessed to be a hundred strangers. Well, male strangers. He recognized quite a few skimpily dressed girls as he pushed his way towards the terrace in search of his best friend. The apartment was dim, illuminated by a few black lights haphazardly mounted on the bare white walls, and Peter's tower speakers (his only contribution to the space he shared with Derek) exploded with a Clash song he vaguely recognized. Derek got to pick the music, then._

_He reached his destination only to step into a more crowded area. He could see his best friend in the middle of said crowd, shouting some vulgar words of discouragement across a long wooden table, as he lined up four red cups in a vertical diamond._

"_Winning?" he inquired, reaching the table._

"_Mark," Derek stumbled towards him drunkenly, and Mark had to wonder how it is his best friend always managed to be under the table after just a couple of beers. Derek's fist collided with Mark's open hand in an unsuccessful attempt at a greeting and Mark felt himself being pulled in for a brotherly hug._

"_You want next game?" Derek suggested as he repositioned himself at the table's end next to Peter and fished a ping pong ball out of one of the plastic cups._

_Mark answered with a shake of his head. "Where's the beer?" he asked after looking around and not spotting a cooler._

"_Kitchen," Peter answered for Derek who was currently concentrating on aiming the plastic ball in his hand at the other team's arrangement of cups._

_Despite the many downsides of Derek's ancient New Haven building, (old pipes, run down paint, grimy bathroom tiles) the old fashioned floor plans had their advantages. The rooms were decently sized, his terrace stretched for a good ten yards, and his kitchen was separate from the living area. He managed to open the door and get inside the small space after a little trouble navigating through the hordes of people occupying every inch of the living room._

_Once safely inside, Mark absorbed his surroundings, eyebrows perking up at the recognition that he was not alone. He smiled by way of greeting at the kitchen's other occupant, a redhead sitting quietly on the counter beside the sink._

_His smile was not returned. Instead her eyes burnt into him like cigarettes, and he stood frozen for a moment, unable to divert his gaze. She looked away first, and his eyes followed her hand as it reached into the sink and retrieved a half-empty bottle of Absolut Vodka. Mark allowed the side of his mouth to pinch into an amused smirk. Habitually, his well-trained eyes began their trek down her body. They didn't get far before his face contorted in puzzlement. She wore a black cloak, tied gingerly around her neck, and a gold and red striped tie hung around the white collar peaking out from beneath the garment. Her long legs were clad in a pair of charcoal slacks, the outfit culminating with a pair of black oxfords on her feet._

_She must have noticed his perplexed expression because she sighed heavily, drawing his attention back to her face. He watched two annoyed pupils stare at him from behind a pair of round, thick-rimmed glasses and he wondered how he hadn't noticed them before. What was with this girl?_

"_It's a _costume_ party," she declared resentfully, raising her hands shoulder-level as if at gunpoint (and he still laughs fondly at the memory of that vodka bottle in her right hand and what she later informed him was a wand in her left)._

"_Is it? I guess I wasn't informed," the chuckle left his throat before he had a chance to contain it, "me and everyone else out there," he added, just for good measure._

_The redhead rolled her eyes and busied herself with pouring a shot of the alcohol in her hand. Mark studied her over the door of the refrigerator as he blindly felt for a bottle of beer inside. For the life of him he could not figure out what it was she meant to dress up as. Shoving the door shut, he crossed the kitchen towards the counter, all the while keeping his eyes on her._

"_What?" the object of his focus spoke, annoyance evident in her voice._

_He recoiled slightly, aligning the cap of his bottle with the edge of the counter and pulling until it snapped off. "Just trying to," he gestured towards her attire with the opened bottle, "figure out what it is you're supposed to be."_

_One perfectly manicured eyebrow crawled up her forehead and he resisted smoothing out the wrinkled skin with his thumb. A thin, lightening-bolt shaped mark on her forehead caught his eye. Creasing his own eyebrows, he leaned back a little._

"_Stop looking at me like I have fibrous dysplasia," she demanded before tipping her head back as she emptied the shot glass into her mouth._

_He leaned against the counter, his interest peaked even more. "And what do you know about fibrous dysplasia?"_

_The girl in the black coat squared her shoulders, raising her jaw as if accepting a challenge. "__Fibrous dysplasia is a congenital, metabolic, nonfamilial disturbance that occurs in one or more bones, at times in association with skin pigmentations or endocrine abnormalities," she recited, hoping off her place on the counter. Her hand quickly wrapped around the counter's edge to steady herself, and Mark could tell that the last shot she took was likely preceded by at least a few. She continued. "Approximately one-third of patients with fibrous dysplasia have involvement of the cranial or facial bones." A hiccup interrupted her tirade, but only for a split second. "Deformity, diplopia, proptosis, sinus infection, deafness, and loss of vision, are some of the clinical features that may require early surgical management. Evidence is given to support more complete resection of bony lesions with immediate reconstruction by several techniques…"_

_Mark stared at her wide-eyed, finally interrupting when he saw no intent of stopping in her eyes. "What did you memorize the entire chapter?" he asked, his tone balancing amazement and mockery._

"_You asked," she shrugged, and the low pitch of her voice made it difficult to let her turn away from him. So he didn't. His hand was on her forearm before he realized he had even moved, turning her back to face him as she turned to walk away. He didn't miss the small flames in her eyes as she stared at him indignantly. It was his cue to release his hold of her arm._

"_What is this," his finger reached up to her forehead to trace the black mark he had observed minute prior. The ink smeared beneath his fingertips. Oops._

"_It's a scar."_

"_A scar." He repeated, dumbfounded._

"_I'm Harry Potter." She declared as if it was the most obvious thing in the world._

"_Oh," He nodded in mock comprehension, "okay."_

_She narrowed her eyes at him. "You don't know who that is."_

_He raised up his hands in surrender. "You got me."_

"_Whatever," she sighed, peeling the comical spectacles off of the bridge of her nose, "want a shot?"_

_Why not. He didn't plan on driving home across town, and he certainly wasn't planning on stepping back out into the swarm of drunks in the living room while sober himself. Plus, something about the feisty auburn haired girl beside him made staying in the kitchen highly more appealing. Without the plastic frames obscuring half her face, he was able to study her more closely. She reached up to retrieve another clear shot glass from the cabinet above the sink and in retrospect he should have wondered how she knew where everything was located. Should have noticed how she navigated around the kitchen like it was her own home. But he was preoccupied, observing every movement of her fingers as she poured two identical servings into each glass. She had thin, long fingers, and her practical, short nails shone in the light. He surmised her to be a medical student, like him, and made a mental note to ask her later. She slid his glass towards him, clinking hers against it before once again tipping her head back and swallowing it's contents._

"_You hold your liquor well," he commented, admiring her take another graceful mouthful of discounted vodka. Her lips would purse after each shot, curling out in a manner that reminded him of a duckling. He smiled as he watched her._

"_It was the only way to survive the galas and functions my parents dragged me to throughout my life," she explain, dejected._

_Several shots later, (more for him, since she informed him she had already had a few before he joined her and he had some catching up to do) she stood laughing beside him, what about neither could remember, now._

"_So tell me something," she straightened up, "what are you doing in here, with me?"_

_The question took him by surprise._

_He employed his classic smile, figuring he had beat around the bush enough. Their genuine conversation was already quite a digression from the typical Mark Sloan persuasion._

_He pushed off his side of the counter and tipped his body toward her, bracing a hand on the cool tile beside her side, as she remained resting against the sink._

"_You seem like an intelligent girl," he observed, his eyes flashing, "but if you really need me to narrate, well, I aim to please."_

"_Do you?" she cocked an eyebrow, holding his gaze._

_He smiled his affirmation. "Do you need proof?"_

"_Whatever do you mean?" She blinked up at him, playfully._

"_Right now, I am playing with the drawstrings of your…cloak." He began, eliciting a loud laugh from her, and he could smell the alcohol on her breath._

_Undeterred, Mark continued. "And now I am pulling it free of the knot," his action paralleled his dictation and the article of clothing loosened around her neck. He stepped vigilantly into the space between them, his fingers tracing the outline of her collar before reaching behind her neck to trail into her hair. The red locks were silk as they slipped through his fingers, and she allowed him to rake them all the along the length of her hair before she inhaled sharply. Mark took it as a sign of encouragement, both palms cupping her elbows before invading the expanse of her lower back, all the while watching her with intent._

"_Stop."_

_He felt her breath on his lips before the words hit him. He felt a pressure on his chest. Looking down, he found a set of palms pushing at his upper body, causing him to step back. She slipped sideways in an instant, putting a few feet of space between them._

"_I'm sorry," the words felt appropriate, even though he didn't know what it was he was apologizing for. It was rare that he had to deal with rejection. Mark Sloan was not accustomed to hearing the word 'stop' when not preceded by the word 'don't.'_

"_I just thought we could have some fun," he winked at her, attempting to remember how it was he got all the other girls to surrender and half-wondering why he wasn't out in the party where surely he could have already left with one of the blondes in the miniskirts he noticed when he arrived._

_The redhead in front of him seemed to read his mind. "There's plenty of 'fun' to be had out there."_

"_You're right," he nodded, glancing towards the door, "but you're better."_

"_Why?" she asked, sounding sincere enough._

_He stared at her for what felt like minutes, watching her azure irises grow tired of watching his and begin to skip from window to door to her feet._

"_I'm…" he decided to settle for honesty, "not sure yet."_

_Mark Sloan didn't spend time pondering the unique emotions women inspired in him. Mostly because no woman ever has. Before now. But this was a revelation detected only in retrospect._

_This is when his memory fails him, but he does remember somehow ending up inches away from her once again. She didn't retreat, but she didn't encourage him either. Instead, he recalls the steady look in her eyes as she inhaled deeply and whispered a quiet but firm "No."_

_Seconds later the door swung open, and a slightly more sober Derek breezed into the room, carrying a collection of beer cans in his arms. He smiled at the two of them, bellowed a "Hey" and made his way to the large trash bin in the corner to deposit the cargo._

_Everything happened so fast that Mark didn't have time for one of those realization montages that happens in movies. He watched as Derek waltzed over to slap him on the back and mutter something about his victory at the drinking game he dedicated the last four hours two. He watched his new friend roll her eyes and return to her place by the counter. He watched his best friend reach out and trail his knuckles up her now bare arm (the black cloak that had covered her earlier lay crumpled on the floor from when Mark untied its drawstrings)._

"_Still angry?" Mark heard Derek murmur into her ear, and his cheeks burned from fury (or from the dozen shots of vodka infiltrating through his blood stream)._

_At some point Derek returned his attention to him, one arm wrapped around the redhead's waist as he pulled her into the conversation._

"_I guess you already met," he laughed, "but I'll do the proper introduction anyway. Mark this is Addison."_

_He doesn't remember what he said to that or what the rest of the evening's events consisted of (though he does remember crashing on Derek's couch and watching a pajama clad Addison tiptoe her way to the kitchen for a glass of water) but he does remember the way her eyes bore into his the moment Derek 'properly introduced them.' He couldn't quite place the emotion behind them, but it almost looked like a blend of guilt and caution. He later asked her if she knew who he was all along—her boyfriend's best friend—but her answer was inconclusive. She said that he should have known, and when his expression illustrated his confusion, she elaborated._

"_You would have known, if you had bothered to ask my name," she said simply._

_He reprimands himself to the day, thinking it might have been easier if he understood the limits of their association from the beginning. If only he had asked for her name._

But as he stands beneath the arc leading into her living room and watches her lie back down on the floor, drunkenly stretching her never-ending jean-clad legs across the carpet, he knows that it wouldn't have stopped his feelings for her in the years to come.

"You know," he muses with a devious grin, sidestepping her stretched out arms. Addison giggles and extends one hand into the air, reaching for the promised refilled glass.

"Mmm?" she hums as he crouches beside her.

"Wouldn't you be Ron Welsley?" he teases, gathering her cabernet red hair off the floor and dropping the locks onto her face playfully.

"No." She answers tensely, eyes glaring at him, voice conveying the offence she feels each time he comments on the matter. "And it's _Weasley_," she adds with a pout.


End file.
